carbon
by miriya v
Summary: A short series of small, twisted vignettes, exploring the darker sides of Kazama Jin and Hwoarang. Beware the flying shounen-ai undertones.
1. quick s a n d

Er . . . first in a series of short vignettes I've been writing. Blame it on my newfound obsession with overanalyzing characters, and massive amounts of Tori's latest album, /Scarlet's Walk/. Maybe I'll be burned at stake for my interpretations, but maybe someone will like 'em.  
  
Who knows. Standard disclaimers apply; I don't own shit, I don't know shit, and I certainly don't want to eat it. Same goes for warnings;Jin's POV, there's some pretty transparent shounen-ai overtones, and that's what I'm about. ^_^ Figure all this literary spew is set a little bit before the fourth tournament, and we can call it good. =^_^=  
  
(This is my cue to shut the hell up.)  
  
  
  
- q u i c k sand  
  
and you said you would find me  
  
even in death  
  
- - -  
  
Maybe it was raining in Japan.  
  
Not gentle showers, but the insane monsoon outbursts that tore through the great green forests -- the ones that could obliviate summer fields in passing. Here, he noticed, it was always sunny, a bright and rather inappropriate atmosphere for his own morbid depression. He preferred to be gloomy in bad weather, and this was most definitely not the place.  
  
It hadn't rained in months.  
  
He missed Japan, though he'd never admit it; there was something in the sculpted tranquility of his family's gardens (his kaasan's family, that was -- his father had no eye for beauty unless it involved destruction, though he too could understand beauty of that kind) that could never be expressed or duplicated in a place as wild . . . as desolate, as this.  
  
Hokkaido was beautiful this time of year: the orchids and tree azaleas and rhododendrons spoke of stately, ancient beauty that he longed to see again.  
  
He sighed and rolled into his last kata: the kicks and punches came easily to his body despite the turmoil in his mind. The dojo was empty, free for him to bear down with the full force of his strength and frustration.  
  
Turning from the last move, he fell into a flurry of violent blows that proved too much for the ancient, defenseless punching bag that was his victim. In a muffled explosion of padding and duct tape, the bag burst open and rained bits of fluff over the expanse of the floor.  
  
He stood in the middle of it, wild eyed and silent but for the harsh cadence of his breath. The ceiling fan whined above, and he smiled, lips tight against the perfect bone-white of his teeth.  
  
Maybe it was raining in Pusan. Maybe /he/ was there, fighting in battles of his own.  
  
Maybe /he/ was winning.  
  
(Who else flew so well without wings of their own?)  
  
The smile faded as he stalked from the dojo. Someone else would clean up the mess.  
  
- - -  
  
Num . . . as much as he may act like a sissy, I still love Jin. =^_^= There's a number of reasons for that, but my driving desire is to see him go utterly Fuuma-evil. Wah! The thought makes me pleased. What else is there to say? Bob's POV is next, and I like it just a bit more. Hee. 


	2. morning view

PoV two, this time from the scruffy korean punk. Thank god for that kid.  
  
Er. Short and to the point. Disclaimers and warnings still stand, save for the addition of drug presence, deep angst, and a total lack of resolution. I'm just spinning through the boy's head, and playing a bit. Please don't hate me?  
  
  
  
morning view  
  
- who can Love you and still be standing?  
  
- - -  
  
To the boy sitting on the sill, days are sometimes too long.  
  
He is quiet, one foot resting against a low table, slim hands folding and unfolding slowly, a tidal motion against a battered scrap of newspaper. A half-smoked joint rests behind his ear: something he saves for the days he really feels like shit. (Not that he likes the stuff -- quite the opposite, really. He views the drug as more of a self-inflicted punishment for allowing himself to slip into stupid moments of depression. One, he feels, should always show a pleasant face, no matter how one feels. Even if it means deceiving friends. /Even if it means deceiving oneself/.)  
  
He ponders the newspaper and the engraved silver lighter in his pocket. Not his -- something so clean has no place in the lifestyle he has chosen of fights and thievery -- and for perhaps the thirteenth time this morning, his mind passes over his memory of 'that person'.  
  
It makes him feel helpless. It makes him feel dirty. (One should never taint the love of the fight with . . . more personal matters. This is what he believes.) And it serves in its own small way to fuel the obsession that has haunted him since the first violent encounter that was too many years and scars ago to count.  
  
(/One ages quickly in these times/, he reflects with a wry smile.)  
  
Things never work out the way they are supposed to -- this thought amuses him as he sits and watches dawn explode outside his window in a riot of color. Vengeance is a simple thing; an integral part of human nature. Something hurts you, hurt it back. These days it sometimes goes by the name of justice. Hatred, too, is not unique.  
  
He wonders when it stopped being these things.  
  
This . . . This, he does not understand.  
  
So he sits there, listening to the sounds of Pusan in the morning, half- muted behind the dirty glass.  
  
He's waiting, and he doesn't know why.  
  
- - -  
  
That's it for the time being. This thing kept me up for countless nights, trying to continue on to . . . something with it, but there was no cooperation between my wants and the muses. Fucky. Probably the shortest piece of ish I've ever done, but it makes me feel all dark and angsty whenever I look at it. Which, in my head, is a damn good thing.  
  
Whatever. Maybe more will crop up. ^_^;; 


End file.
